The Alex King Series, A BATEMAN [good books for high schoolers .TXT] 📗

a handle made from reindeer antler. He turned and pointed to the fringe of trees. “I’ll get some branches cut,” he replied.

King followed and when they reached the trees he waited while Stewart hacked at the branches. The man was skilled in bush craft and cut wedges both sides, then set about pulling the branch one way and then the other to snap them. He tossed the branch at King, who took out his folding ceramic knife and expertly whittled off the tendrils and cleaned the ends, giving it a sharp point at one end to dig into the ice and a wide vee at the other to grip and wedge a thumb for extra purchase. He tested it, then dodged the next branch which Stewart threw at him. He said nothing as he trimmed the branch. Stewart was still licking his wounds. He hadn’t been used to taking orders and it would take some adjusting to. King was damned if he was going to back down and appease the man. They had been close, but that had been a long time ago. There would always be the betrayal between them, the vengeance King had so very nearly handed him. There had been a lot of water pass under the bridge since then, and King had been pleased to reacquaint and pass an uneasy truce, but the two men worked for different services. King had a job to do, and he would do it with or without the man from MI6.

23

 

The man dropped the revs and the snowmobile slowed quickly as he reached the bend in the road. He could see the barrier had been broken. It was strange, because even at speed, which was difficult on the ice, most vehicles would have glanced off and slewed back across the road.

He cut the throttle altogether and the snowmobile stopped beside the precipice. He took the rifle out of its cradle and stepped off the machine. He looked around, checking the fringe of the forest on the other side of the road. A prime spot from which to spring an ambush. The trees were thinly spaced, and the recent squall had blown a thousand-tonnes of ice from their branches. There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to attack from. Feeling quite safe, he trudged across the ice road and looked over the edge.

The Volvo was on its roof. The snow chains were full of ice and as he looked back at the road and the skid marks, he could see why the barrier had broken. The car had been blown through by the devastating winds. He had lived in the region his entire life and he had never known a storm like this. And there was worse to come, by all accounts. He had seen his fair share of Arctic storms; his tribe were nomadic and followed the reindeer. When they reached the shores, they skirted the coast across northern Russia to hunt seals and Beluga whales. The winds there could be savage, but this was new to him. The series of squalls were both sudden and violent.

He looked back down at the Volvo and saw the footprints. He shouldered his rifle and used the scope to follow the tracks. Two people. One walking behind the other. So, they were heading to the hotel. The Eagle’s Nest. A bold, but clever move. If they could hold the line and not veer left like everybody did, especially up here, deep inside the Arctic Circle, then they would have cut miles off their journey. But there were many hazards up here. And at this time of year, deep into the winter, the wolves were hungry. He knew the terrain. He would ambush the man who was asking the questions. And then, he would call in the wolfpack again. And like the Englishman before, he would enjoy gutting him alive.

24

 

With four sturdy poles cut and prepared, King picked up two of them and took to the ice first. He found that if he allowed the poles to take half his weight, he could slide his feet as though he were on cross-country skis and make satisfactory progress. Occasionally his foot would meet a stubborn piece of ice that the squall had not swept away, and he would have to save himself by putting more weight onto the poles. He turned and watched as Stewart fell and sprawled on the ice. He looked most displeased as he got back tentatively back to his feet.

“Bloody fool’s errand,” he grumbled. “Should have stuck to the bloody road!”

“And you’d be doing this the same time tomorrow morning,” King said. He looked behind Stewart and mapped their progress. The tracks looked straight enough. In the Northern Hemisphere people tended to veer to the left. Hence the adage about walking around in circles. The further north, the more prominent the veer. Something to do with the tilt of the axis and the direction of the earth’s spin. King had tried to counter this by leaning to his right and placing more weight on his right foot. He looked back at Stewart, who was breathing heavily and showing some pain on his face. The ice was as hard as concrete, and the man had taken quite a tumble. “Want me to carry your bag?”

Stewart did not reply, but his glare said it all. He adjusted his pack, dug both poles into the ice. “Are we moving, or what?”

King turned and led the way. He dug the poles in, then hesitated. Looking back at Stewart he asked, “Can you hear that?”

“What?”

“An engine,” King held his breath, straining to hear more.

It was a distant hum. Monotonous and strained. King had heard the sound before.

“Shit,” he said quietly.

“What? So, its an engine. Maybe we can signal for help?” Stewart shook his head. “Damn you! Now we could do with some fuel, some fabric